concentration
by Duilin
Summary: There's no reason to live, but every reason to disobey. Maglor tries to find a little peace in hell. He's the only one alive now, after all. It's been like that for a while now. / It's more angst than horror; his injuries aren't that descriptive.


**concentration**

_'It never occurred to him that he should want to live. Even now, watching everyone die, he does not shy from gruesome demise. It is what could happen in the interim that draws him to unnecessary anguish.'_

* * *

He sits quietly in a run-down bunker, gliding torn fingertips against splintered wood.

His body is not as malnourished as it is abused.

His body is indistinguishable in skin color from its current state. Bones protrude grotesquely out from his skin, stretching him tight like a mistuned string on the lyre. His shoulder blades are painful to glance upon, the skin transparent, the bones causing restricted blood flow, cutting off little arteries that would otherwise prevent ghastly white splotches on his discolored skin.

_Too dehydrated,_ he thinks wearily.

Angry red marks, like an anchor's trail through the sea sand, are painted onto his back from the whips and lashes of yesterday. One of his eyes is swollen shut, courtesy of last week's guard stationed at the door. Five people tried to escape; he was not one of them.

Despite his unearthly pallor, it seems that blood can still run through his system. His hips sports a blossoming bruise that will ache even more tomorrow—if he is still alive by then. They're constantly picking a handful of prisoners to toss into a chamber.

Suffocating someone from the inside with prussic acid.

Almost genius.

He's endured it about twice. They always throw him back here because it isn't effective with him.

At least he survived in Rome. No gladiator could defeat an Elf who had seen the Light. He remembers one phrase.

"_Ave, Imper__ā__tor, morit__ūrī__ t__ē__ sal__ū__tant."_

He leans forward slightly and hears something crack. The movement is enough provocation to his body to jut out the back of his pelvic bone. But his physical condition is better than his companion's. He winces at the thought and shifts back to his original position.

It hurts to put on clothing; it hurts to be in the cold. But his right arm is snapped in two places, and the tendons in his left hand ache dully. To aggravate his shoulders would be pleading for misery, setting off an entirely new and sharp sting down his spine. The constant pain is easily ignored, however. Nothing burns worse than the scorch marks in his palm.

The one place that _they_ seemingly refuse to touch him. Maybe they are disgusted by _that_ as well, despite not knowing about what happened.

A new injury could take away that eternal pain.

He'll have to find another way to provoke the lieutenant. They're surely running out of places to ruin his body. They'll reach the hand soon enough.

If he's lucky, they'll amputate it.

Or should he kill an officer?

He glances to the outside and sees a blond-haired man stationed at the door. He flexes his hurting hand.

There's only one option.

He makes to stand, squirming off of his bunk. Once he's on his feet, his legs give out from underneath him, and he crashes to the floor.

His shoulder connects with the floor first. His pelvis bangs against stone.

The man at the door starts at the sound and storms in. He shouts something, evidently irate. He recognizes a few words that the blue-eyed man yells and struggles with a response.

_A name._

"Don't…have one…anymore," he croaks.

The man glowers at him and reaches down to pull him up forcefully. But he grasps the foreign wrist and pulls the man down onto the ground, quickly maneuvering onto his aching side so that he can grab a fistful of blond hair and repeatedly smash the head into the ground. His grip is weak, but the man is utterly stunned. He reaches for a dirty food bowl with the broken arm and slowly switches hands.

Blue eyes glare up at him, glazed over.

He holds the stare for a single moment—then he crushes the bowl against the face with all of his strength.

The officer struggles, choking. The body twitches; arms flail weakly, hitting him where the bruises are. He throws the bowl off to the side and muffles the man's mouth with spidery, spindly fingers. When the man stops moving, he removes his hands. The bridge of the nose splintered and went into the brain. Patches of discoloring begin to form around the fractured part between the blank blue eyes.

He exhales shakily in exhaustion and relief, collapsing back onto the ground. His hand burns.

His entire body is in _constant pain_.

He turns his head to the right to look at the dead officer.

Slowly, he sits up. Then vomits until his sight is obscured by dark shadow.

A bitter taste, acidic and sour, remains on his tongue and lodged in his throat when _they_ chain him to the unused gallows in the camp. They swear angrily at him as the rain pours down on them all. He extends his hand to them meaningfully, a hand that has been stained with blood that is not his (_always stained with blood that is not his)._

The last thing he would want is to have killed a being in vain.

But eight pairs of blue eyes scowl down at him, as if rejecting his request. They all spit on him before they leave.

The saliva is washed off by the rain, and water accumulates around his body.

He mutely stares up at the hellish grey sky.

That was already the seventh officer this month.

* * *

**_n._**

_the action or power of focusing one's attention or effort towards one objective_

* * *

**A/N:** I haven't written anything in a long time. No progress on Chiaroscuro in the slightest, as my own concentration has lacked . But this... I have dreamed of this.

Also, apologies to everyone I have no responded to in private messaging. My mind is lethargic.


End file.
